


You're Gonna Carry that Weight

by phineasandme



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1964ish, Carrying, George and Ringo are so confused, Hair-pulling, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Paul is pining, Rough Kissing, how does Brian put up with McLennon I stg, john is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phineasandme/pseuds/phineasandme
Summary: John decides to carry Paul bridal-style down a flight of stairs at their hotel. Chaos ensues.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	You're Gonna Carry that Weight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place around 1964 in an unspecified city, just another one of the many random hotels the Beatles saw during their crazy lives! Thank you for reading!!!

Paul supposed it all began with Brian, sheet-white and trembling, poking his head through the regally adorned hotel room door.

“All right, lads?” he asked, feigning casualty as he fiddled with his cufflinks. His voice was two octaves higher than normal. The heavy door shut behind him, and he jumped at the noise. 

It was still early--early enough that keeping their eyes open was quite a chore--and everything seemed slow and hazy. John was shirtless, toying absentmindedly with the belt around his waist; George was quietly strumming his guitar in the corner, clearly not awake enough for conversation just yet; a lazy drip of water sounded from the bathroom as Ringo dutifully brushed his teeth. 

Paul had been sat on the floor, pulling on his socks and trying not to stare too obviously at John’s bare chest. It was proving to be a difficult task, one so consuming that he hardly registered Brian’s neuroticism until John said, 

“Christ, Brian, what is it? You look horrible.” 

“It’s--ah--it’s nothing, really… just a little setback, that’s all… nice morning, isn’t it?” 

“Is that you, Brian?” Ringo’s sleepy voice called from the bathroom, muffled with foam. 

John’s hair was still ruffled with sleep, his eyes cloudy with tiredness. Paul thought longingly of his lips; he was having trouble focusing on the present conversation. 

“Spit it out, then,” John snapped, an edge in his voice that to a stranger would have appeared as impatience, but Paul knew to be anxiety. 

Brian sighed, finally letting his cufflinks rest. “Lads, I hate to ruin your morning, but… Ringo, you’d better come in here for this…” 

“What’s going on, then?” George asked, moving closer to the group. He glanced about nervously, as though fearing the threat was under their noses. Ringo strolled out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a pristine white towel. He gave Brian a cheerful “hullo” before sensing the tenseness in the room. 

“What’s all this, then?” 

“Lads,” Brian said wearily, running a hand through his hair, “lads, it’s--someone’s found your location, they’ve found the hotel, and, well… they’ve told others, you know…” 

There was a moment of silence as the four exchanged fearful glances. Paul’s stomach sank; his head was suddenly filled with piercing screams and sharp fingernails, ripped shirt sleeves and the wide eyes of his bandmates. It wasn’t that they weren’t grateful for their fans, of course they were, but large crowds of them could become quite fearsome, and even violent. It was only a few months ago that a girl had launched herself so fiercely at George that he sustained a bloody lip. 

“How bad?” John, as always, was pretending to be fearless, but Paul noted the tightness in his voice. 

“I--well-- word spreads fast, and…” Brian sighed. “See for yourself, if you like.” he gestured toward the far room of their suite, which held a massive window. 

John eyed Brian warily, then strutted across the room, wrenching open the curtain. The company followed him, Paul bringing up the rear. 

“Je-sus…” 

Jesus was right, Paul thought gingerly, as he gazed down at the madness below. A crowd, larger than he had ever seen at this early hour, was massing below, pouring into the steps of the grand hotel. The sidewalks outside the hotel were crammed with people so tightly that it was a wonder they were even breathing. There were so many people, pushing and shoving and screaming, holding up signs in every color, that Paul suddenly felt nauseous. 

He stumbled back a little ways, found his way to a chair. 

“I know it’s a pain and all,” Ringo was saying, “but it’s nice to know they care, I suppose.” 

George gave Ringo a look of acute exasperation before joining Paul. The younger boy’s knees were knocking together. 

“Oh, go on, lads, it’ll be alright, I swear to you,” Brian said urgently, pleading. “I’ve called security--they’re on the way--and, really, you’ve just got to get down the steps and into the car that’ll be waiting, so it’s not too far, not too far at all--” 

‘Not too far’ was an understatement, Paul thought, as he recalled the massive, marble staircase that led to the prestigious hotel. But he put on a grin for Brian’s sake. “Yeah, lads, it’ll be alright, go on, George.” 

George raised his eyebrows at him, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Just down the stairs, is all,” Paul said, hoping his smile didn’t look as fake as it felt. “John?” 

John turned, and their eyes met. Paul often wondered at how the two of them had such an innate sense of communication; a thousand things were often said just within one glance. Paul saw a million things in John’s eyes that morning--mostly anger, but quite a bit of fear, as well--and Paul did his best to plead with him, placate him, reassure him, all in the one glance. 

John straightened and dropped his gaze. “Of course, Macca,” he said, rather snidely. “We can handle a few teenage girls, Eppy.” But the look in his eyes suggested otherwise. 

\- 

Around twenty minutes later, the boys stood outside the hotel, shielding their eyes from the sun. The crowd, if anything, had grown larger, and at the sight of the band, quickly developed into a screaming frenzy. Nine or ten massive security guards had cleared them a path down the middle of the stairs, but the fans were relentless, pushing and shoving and clawing closer. At the end of the steps was a sleek, black car, also guarded by more security. The doors were open in anticipation, as though the car, too, was eager to see the Beatles. 

Feeling very dazed, Paul waved to the crowd and gave them the most charming grin he could muster. It faltered a little as he saw a girl pull someone’s hair, yanking her out of the way so that she could get closer. “Christ,” John muttered in his ear, but he had a false grin on as well. Ringo was beaming; George managed a smile and wave. The crowd’s screams grew in intensity at the sight. 

“All right, then, lads, just down the stairs,” Brian was saying, hovering nervously behind them. He spoke loudly over the screams. “Just keep moving, yeah? Quick as you can. And take care of each other, too--protect each other, yeah?” 

Paul gave him a reaffirming grin that he hoped was more convincing than he felt. The stairs in front of them suddenly seemed longer than the Great Wall of China. 

He glanced at John, like he always did, but was taken aback when he realized John was staring mischievously at him, a dangerous glint in his eye. 

“John, what--?” 

But John suddenly sprang forward. He grabbed Paul by the shoulders, pulling him against his chest. “Don’t worry, Paulie, princess, I’ll protect you!” he cried melodramatically, and before Paul could process what was happening, John grabbed under his knees and around his shoulders, lifting Paul into the air. 

“Wha--John!” Paul sputtered in surprise, clutching at John’s neck for fear he’d fall. The crowd around them screamed in response, piercing Paul’s ears. He heard Brian yell something behind them, but he couldn’t make it out. 

“I’ll protect you!” John yelled again, with a maddening grin, and then they were moving, hurrying down the stairs. 

Paul--shocked though he was--did his best to regain control of the situation. He grabbed John tightly, lest he should fall, and leaned back and smiled at the crowd, attempting to look at ease, like this was entirely planned and not at all terrifying and wonderful. He could hardly breathe with John so close. 

They made their way down the stairs, Paul jostling in John’s grip. He wondered fleetingly why John had done this, before resolving that it was just John and his normal madness. A jolt of shock stabbed him when he felt a fan’s fingers grasp his hair--for a moment, he was pulled backwards, until the security guard stepped in and restrained her. 

John was laughing, and every so often he beamed at Paul-- 

But there was the end of the steps, and there was the car. 

Surprisingly carefully, John finally released Paul from his grasp, lowering him into the car and clambering in after him. 

“You prick, Lennon--” Paul attempted to say, still breathless, but he was glowing and giggling. The places where John had touched him--his shoulders, his knees, his chest-- were tingling in a wonderful, surreal way. A pleasant warmth overwhelmed him as he allowed his love for John to overtake him. Had that really just happened? 

John was grinning fondly at him, a bit giggly himself. 

For a wonderful moment, Paul and John locked eyes, and what little breath Paul had left quickly left him. John was staring at him so fondly, with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, that Paul could hardly bear it. He thought for sure his heart would-- 

Wait. 

No. No no no no no nono no-- 

Stomach dropping in horror, Paul broke his gaze and looked down without thinking and-- 

No nononononononono-- 

He was hard. Hard as hell. A painfully obvious bulge sat, plain as day, in his trousers. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be-- 

To his mounting horror, he saw John’s eyes follow his gaze. 

“Hang on,” John said, slowly, “Macca, are you--?” 

But at that moment, to Paul’s intense relief, Ringo, George, and Brian arrived at the car, the piercing screams of thousands cutting off John’s words as the door opened. They clambered into the seat opposite John and Paul, all chuckling to themselves, red-faced and flustered from the overwhelming crowd. 

Hands trembling in panic, Paul quickly yanked off his jacket and threw it across his lap, face burning. He felt John’s eyes on him, burning a hole into his head, but he looked determinedly at his bandmates and fixed a charming, windswept grin onto his face. 

“John!” Ringo said, and that was all he said, before bursting into peals of laughter. 

“They’ll be reporting about that one for weeks,” George said, but he was grinning too. 

“Are you all right, Paul?” Brian asked, speaking loudly over Ringo’s laughter. 

“‘M fine, Brian,” Paul said quickly. His voice was much too high. He fidgeted with his jacket, tried to look at ease. Humored. “Always good for a laugh, Lennon is.” 

Brian rolled his eyes as the car switched gears and began to move. “Don’t try anything like that again, John,” he said sternly, but his eyes were twinkling. “If you had dropped Paul--if he had been hurt--” 

But John wasn’t responding with his usual quip; he had an odd, pinched look about his lips, like he was trying to keep from laughing, and his eyes were darting, back and forth, from Paul’s face to the window outside. He seemed to be deep in thought, turning something over in his mind with detached amusement. Paul wished he could disappear. 

Girls were running alongside the car, all dripping mascara and loose curls; they pounded on the windows and screamed the names of their beloved Beatles. 

Paul hardly noticed; he stared fixedly out the window, but saw nothing except the red panic in his mind. He suddenly thought it’d be better to take his chances with the screaming fans outside than to remain here, boner barely hidden and throbbing obviously. 

John saw. John saw. John knows. You’re hard as hell and John knows he knows he knows-- 

“Are you alright, Paul?” George asked softly, as Ringo began to recount the exciting descent down the stairs. To Paul’s relief, John seemed to step out of his reverie, and he nodded along with Ringo, laughing brilliantly at his own witty stunt. 

“‘M fine, just overwhelmed, is all,” Paul said lightly. He would have to work on his “at ease” face if George saw through it so easily. 

He felt John’s eyes on him again at the sound of Paul speaking. Desperately, he tried to shift in his chair, willed his erection to chill the fuck out-- 

“Macca,” John said suddenly. Paul heard, rather than saw, his smirk. His stomach dropped. Nonononononono-- 

“Yes?” 

“Quiet for a moment, boys, will you?” Eppy asked, and began speaking rapidly into the car telephone. “Yes, we’ve just left, we’re due at the airport any--” 

“All that excitement from the steps has left me feeling quite cold, Macca,” John went on, “and, seeing as you’re not using your jacket, I was wonderin’ if you’d lend it to us?” 

That prick. 

John’s oddly formal, clearly mocking tone was unusual when speaking to Paul, and this caught the attention of his bandmates; suddenly Paul felt everyone’s eyes on him. 

Paul wanted to punch John. He wanted that very much. 

Instead, he gave a high-pitched, false laugh. “It’s bloody burning outside, John, you don’t need--” 

“No, Macca, I really do,” John said, and flashed him a charming grin. He was enjoying this immensely. Paul felt the heat rush to his cheeks as he turned to face him. To his horror, he felt the bulge in his pants grow larger as their eyes met again, John mocking and daring and dauntless. 

Clutching at the jacket, his one protection against doubtless embarrassment, Paul tried desperately to think of a reason not to give it up. 

“You could borrow mine, John,” Ringo offered, clearly unnerved by the strange tension. He and George exchanged puzzled looks. 

“No, that’s alright, Rings,” John said cheerfully, his eye contact with Paul unwavering. “I’d really like Paul’s.” 

“My legs are cold,” Paul blurted stupidly. “I need it.” 

John’s grin grew wider. “Go on, Paul, give us it here.” 

“No, John--” 

But then John suddenly made a swipe for the jacket and Paul was forced to leap into action; he awkwardly hung on to one side, trying to tug it down in front of his dick and the same time keeping it away from John. “John--you prick--” Paul snapped, as John tugged insistently, his eyes glinting devilishly. For several moments, they were locked in a fierce tug-of-war, eyes locked. Why did John have to look so good even when he was being an ass? 

“For Chrissakes, lads, give the jacket a rest before you rip it!” Brian snapped, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. “That jacket alone cost more than my mother’s house, I swear to you…” 

John gave Paul a wicked grin and released the jacket suddenly. Paul jerked backwards with the leftover force, the jacket falling awkwardly over his knees. He quickly repositioned it over his lap, cheeks burning, making a mental vow to kill John later. 

George and Ringo stared at them, looking monumentally confused. Paul flashed them an easy grin, knowing full well he looked a complete idiot, before fixing his eyes on the window. John grinned at all of them, triumphant in his silent win, before engaging George in a cheerful conversation about last night’s gig. 

Paul resisted the urge to punch him. And why the hell was he still hard? 

\- 

“Sure you don’t want to come with us, Paul?” Ringo asked, hand on the doorknob. He had taken off his suit jacket and was bouncing on the balls of his feet. George was just behind him, studying Paul intently. 

“No, no, you go on ahead,” Paul said. He played a few jaunty chords on the piano. “I just need to rest, honestly.” 

Ringo nodded, but George furrowed his brow. 

“Paul, if you aren’t feeling well, I could stay behind,” he offered in an offhand way, meeting Paul’s eyes and then looking away in embarrassment. 

“No, no, honestly, go on! I’m fine, lads.” 

George shrugged, and reached for his jacket. Paul worked up the nerve to ask what had been nagging away at him for some time. 

“Is--ah--is John going with you?” he asked tightly, gazing at the piano keys instead of his bandmates. 

Ringo snorted. “He’s already gone, hasn’t he? Can’t keep Lennon away from the clubs, you know him.” 

“Oh, that’s--yes, you can’t, can you?” Paul felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, and it was with a wide, genuine smile that he bid his mates farewell. 

As the door snapped shut behind them, Paul let out a sigh of relief, not even a bit remorseful at the fun he would miss without his bandmates that night. He was exhausted--that bit was true--but, more than anything else, he needed to get away from John Lennon. 

It was the next day. After a long overnight plane ride (Paul pretended to sleep through all of it to avoid John, but really he was just reliving the steps over and over again), they had arrived in a new city, ready to face a new gig the following night. They had somehow managed their way through another press conference, albeit with cheeky comments and many eye rolls, and now it was well past 10 pm, and most of the group were eager to go out. Paul, on the other hand, was grateful to be alone--or, at least, away from John. 

Ever since the hard-on incident the day before, John had been almost impossible to be around--bringing up the stair incident whenever he could, grin growing wider at the red flush in Paul’s cheeks. Infuriatingly, John never seemed to stop smirking at Paul, a self-satisfied, condescending smirk that made Paul want to hit him. Worst of all, he even tried picking up Paul again earlier that day in the hotel lobby; Paul had only escaped further embarrassment by quickly wrenching his arm out of John’s grasp and pointedly hurrying in the opposite direction, muttering about needing the loo. 

The worst bit was that there was a part of Paul--a bigger part than he’d like to admit--that enjoyed all the attention John was giving him. For, surely, if John had been disgusted by the display and the obvious connection between the erection and Paul’s attraction to John, wouldn’t John have closed off, avoided Paul like the plague? But Paul didn’t let his hopes get too high: it was a joke, always a joke with Lennon, something he thought humorous and easy to torture Paul about. 

He tried to forget about it, put it all out of his mind, but the fact remained that when John had carried him, it had been breathtakingly wonderful. 

No, he suddenly thought firmly, making his way over to the bed, forget it. This was a new city, after all, with a new gig to be played tomorrow night; between the chaos of the afternoon press conference and the undoubted fun he would have that night, perhaps John would forget all about the steps, perhaps John would move on to some other joke or trick, perhaps things would go back to normal, with Paul sneaking glances and pretending it was an accident when his hand brushed John’s on the piano. 

Normal was nice, he thought, and was actually allowing himself to drift to sleep when he heard the bathroom door slide open. 

“Working on your beauty sleep, princess?” 

John. 

Paul’s heart sank; he groaned aloud in annoyance. So much for avoiding him. 

“Christ, John, I was asleep.” 

“No, you weren’t,” John said with a snort. 

Paul rolled over and buried his face in a pillow. “Then let me sleep, John.” 

“All right,” John relented. Paul heard the smirk in his voice. His heart was pounding, but he pretended to sleep nonetheless, knowing full well John knew he was wide awake. 

John, the asshole, began playing the piano, launching into a lively, extremely loud version of “If I Fell”. Paul ignored him. Or, he tried to. John, ever the master of getting a rise out of someone, continued to build in volume until Paul couldn’t take it. 

“Oi, Lennon,” he groaned, rolling onto his side so he was facing John. “Lay off, I said I was sleeping.” 

“Ohh, sorry Paulie, I forgot,” John said, and flashed him a smile. 

Paul rolled his eyes and then closed them again. He willed his heart to stop beating so quickly; the smirk John had given him was making him fluttery. He wanted to yell in annoyance. 

John waited a few minutes, then began playing loudly again. 

“John!” 

“Thought you were asleep.” 

Paul groaned in frustration. When he opened his eyes again, John was smiling smugly at him, leaning against the piano. 

“I thought you were going out,” Paul snapped. He felt more annoyed than he had in ages. 

John shrugged. “Thought you were.” 

“I’m too tired.” 

“Sure, love.” 

“What’s that mean, then?” Paul demanded, for John had spoken in such an irritatingly condescending way that he wanted to scream. 

“Oh, you know…” John said, grinning wickedly. “Thought maybe you were avoiding me, Macca.” 

Christ. “Why would I be avoiding you?” Paul asked defensively. He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. 

“Well, let’s see…” Paul felt the bed sink as John clambered onto it. To his horror, John laid next to him so closely that their legs were touching, noses inches apart. John turned his head to face Paul, but Paul stared stubbornly at the ceiling, heart thumping furiously. 

“There was that… situation yesterday…” John went on. He smelled like cigarettes, like leather, like John. Paul could feel heat rising to his cheeks. 

“What situation?” he tried sounding defiant, but it didn’t quite work. 

John sighed. “You were hard, Paulie. After I carried you. You were hard as hell.” He was grinning, damn him; Paul felt his cheeks flush. 

“No, I--” 

“Yes, you--” 

“No, John, you must be--” 

“Macca, I know wh--” 

“Well, so what if I was?” Paul burst out, and his anger gave him the courage to look at John, inches away. Their noses practically touched; Paul could see every line and crevice in John’s face. “There were--there were hundreds of birds, weren’t there? And they were--they were screaming and... That’s enough to get anyone off,” Paul protested. 

John’s mouth quirked. 

Paul sat up, unable to be so close to John and deny it. 

“You’ve never gotten hard around a crowd of birds before,” John noted. He sounded almost sing-songy. 

“No--well--there were lots of girls this time, lots of good-looking--” 

“It was because of me, wasn’t it?” John asked softly, suddenly. “Paulie, was it me?” 

Paul felt his stomach drop. A heavy silence descended over them. Paul didn’t trust himself to look at John. “Christ--no, John, of course not,” he said finally, though his face was beet red and he couldn’t look John in the eye. 

“Oh, it wasn’t?” 

“No--bloody hell, of course not,” Paul sputtered. He tried to sound outraged. “Why would you ever--” 

John just laughed. 

“Sod off, Lennon.” A fury was building in Paul, a fury that he didn’t quite understand or condone but a fury nonetheless. 

But John kept laughing, obviously pleased. 

Paul, overcome with anger, suddenly leapt at John, tackling him. He wasn’t thinking; couldn’t think. With a crash, the pair fell to the ground, rolling around in a tangle of limbs and anger. Paul found himself on top of John, and managed to punch John in the nose as hard as he could. He reared back, ready for another go, but John was quicker, and grabbed his wrist tightly, halting him. 

“What the hell are you doing?” John demanded, breathless and flushed. Paul was pleased to see he had stopped laughing. 

Paul tried to yank his hand away, but John held it tightly; suddenly John grabbed at him and rolled them over so that John was lying heavily on top of him. 

“Get--off--” Paul struggled, but John had the upper hand, and pinned both of Paul’s arms down on the ground. 

Paul groaned in frustration, fighting to get free. 

“Give it up, Macca,” John said, and though he looked flustered, there was still a hint of a smirk on his face. 

With a huff, Paul stopped struggling against John, focusing on catching his breath instead. 

“Angry, are we?” John asked. He shifted around on top of Paul so that he was straddling him, legs on either side of Paul’s waist. 

Paul felt a flush of arousal and immediately hated himself for it. “Let me up, John,” he snapped, and pulled at his wrists again. He was not about to get hard again, not when John was this close and there was no escaping him. 

“Aye, so you can have a punch at me again? I dunno, Macca,” John said, seeming irritatingly pleased with the current state of affairs. 

The more Paul tried not to think about it, the worse it got--but John on top of him, holding him roughly in place, powerless to move, was for some reason, infuriatingly hot to Paul, and he fought to keep his breath steady. He felt his cock twitch. Fuck. 

“I won’t--hit you,” he said with difficulty, and tried yanking his wrists free. John held them firmly, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Promise?” 

Paul rolled his eyes. He huffed in frustration. “Promise.” 

“All right, then,” John said, smiling. He released Paul’s wrists and sat back. Paul shoved him roughly away and got up quickly, desperately relieved to be released before-- 

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?” 

“That’s what?” Paul asked, turning around. 

John didn’t answer, just pointed at Paul’s trousers, where a large bulge was protruding-- 

“Oh, God!” Paul squeaked, and stupidly tried to cover it with his hands, overwhelmed with panic. Fuck fuck fuuuck… How could this be happening?? 

“John, I don’t, it’s not, oh God…” Paul sputtered, because, Christ, how was he ever going to get out of this one? 

“Macca.” Paul hardly heard him in his panic. 

“Really, John, it doesn’t mean anything, we never have to mention it again, honestly, there’s--” 

“Macca.” 

“I’ll never bring it up, I swear, we don’t--” 

But the wind was knocked out of him as Paul suddenly felt himself slammed up against the wall. There was John again, centimeters away, pinning him to the wall. “John--” 

But Paul was silenced when John kissed him. 

It was rough, harsh, nearly painful: John clutched at him tightly, planting rough kisses on his mouth before moving along to his neck, where he sucked and bit endlessly. Paul, overcome with surprise and desire and millions of other things, moaned loudly. 

John’s fingers were suddenly in his hair, and they pulled brutally, yanking Paul’s head back against the wall. His lips returned to Paul’s mouth, and Paul moaned against it, unable to think, slightly numb. His dick was fully erect, obviously, but to his sharp pleasure, he suddenly felt John’s dick grind against his. John was hard. 

Paul couldn’t help but grin, things sliding into place in his head all at once. When John kissed him again, Paul leaned into it eagerly, hungrily, sliding his tongue into John’s mouth with a force he didn’t know he possessed. He heard John moan quietly, and he flushed with pride at causing John to make that sound. 

It was different, much different, than being with a bird, much rougher and harder, but somehow better--it was John, all John, John in his every breath, John running his tongue along his neck, John’s cock hard against his own. John, John, John... 

John abruptly yanked Paul forward, then slammed him back into the wall again. Paul’s body cried out in pain, but he hardly noticed as a new flash of arousal overwhelmed him. John grabbed at his wrists, just as he had earlier, and pinned them to the wall above Paul’s head. Paul pulled against him, desperately leaning forward, into John, needing more. But John had halted, and was shaking his head at Paul, smirking once more. 

“Christ, Macca,” he said breathlessly, over and over again. Paul pulled at his wrists again, locking eyes with John. He didn’t think he could ever look away. 

“If I had known picking you up like that would have gotten us here,” John said, still catching his breath, “I would have done it ages ago.” 

Paul could only nod. He was trembling, flustered, and felt as though he could pass out in shock; still, he could think only of John’s lips on his, and was desperate for more. 

“I didn’t think…” he tried, but the words weren’t forming. He couldn’t look away from John’s lips. “Didn’t think you felt the same way,” he managed, laughing weakly. 

John rolled his eyes. “You’re daft, you are,” he said, and then they were kissing again, softer this time. Paul fell into a happy oblivion, feeling his knees knock together. 

John pulled back. He looked Paul up and down. “Right, then,” he said shortly, and he released Paul before grabbing him under his knees and around his torso. John lifted him into the air, bridal style, just as he had done the day before. 

But this time, John carried Paul to the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first McLennon fic ever and I barely had a clue what I was doing... Honestly I am just in love with the Beatles and I truly believe that John and Paul were soulmates in every sense of the word... This is just my humble attempt to imagine on some of their relationship. Let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading!!!!


End file.
